Post by Wing on Nov 1, 2006 12:40:00 GMT -5
Chapter 2
24 June 1944
2353 Hours GMT
L’Hotel de La Roche Guyon
La Roche Guyon, France
Erwin Rommel rubbed his eyes as he looked out over the map of the French coast once more, blinking to clear his vision, which was beginning to blur with tiredness. Across from him at the small table where they had finished dinner nearly an hour ago, his chief of staff Hans Speidel seemed to be nodding off sitting up, his chin dropping lower and lower to his chest before he jerked himself awake once more. Like Erwin himself, Hans had been running around all day, and the combined exhaustion and stress being put on the both of them because of the increasing threat of invasion was hitting them both hard. They would both, he knew, sleep very well tonight—if they ever managed to get to bed. There were still several divisions that needed placing on a crucial road that could slow the Allied advance long enough for a group of SS panzers that could knock a section of the British army out, and that was just a start.
“What do you think of this, Hans?” Erwin asked abruptly, not looking up from the map as he went over the plan he had just created again. He spoke in the Swabian dialect he and his chief of staff, who was also a native of the region, used when speaking privately, but tonight his tones were tinged with a hint of the irritated harshness of the common High German.
Speidel snapped upright once again, blinking owlishly from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles as he stifled as yawn. “Er…what di’you say, sir?” he mumbled sleepily, taking off his glasses and polishing them absently on his jacket.
“We put those three infantry divisions here, up on this hill—” the field marshal placed his finger at a certain spot on the map, waiting for his near-sighted chief of staff to replace his spectacles before continuing “—and bring the SS group up like this.” His hand made a sweeping gesture across the map in a different manner than they had discussed before, bringing the panzers to a halt on the British’s right flank.
Hans stared at the map for several seconds before nodding. “That would work.”
“And then…?” Erwin pressed, wanting to see if his chief of staff had the same idea.
“Um…” The stocky general scooted his chair closer and laid his chin on his folded arms, his eyes flicking back and forth over the map. After a long moment, he sat back, looking helplessly up at the Desert Fox. “I’m really sorry, sir, but I have absolutely no idea. Go ahead.”
Erwin patiently counted to ten. “The artillery, Hans, the artillery. Remember now? One of those infantry divisions has an artillery battery. If they move to the left flank when the panzers attack, the British only have one way to go, maximizing their losses.”
“Oh. Right.” Hans was looking miserable. “I get it now.”
His commanding officer sighed. “Go to bed, Hans,” he ordered. “You’re falling asleep on your feet.”
Speidel breathed a sigh of relief and stood up stiffly, suppressing another yawn. “Thank you, sir,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry—I just can’t concentrate anymore.”
“I know, I know, neither can I,” Erwin snapped, his gaze still locked on the map spread out in front of him. “Neither can anyone. Our whole bloody army is exhausted, and now the Allies are knocking on our door. We just can’t do it, Hans. We can’t go on like this. We need reinforcements—if the Führer would just see that this is impossible, we could close this senseless front and focus on Russia like we should be doing.” Suddenly angry, Rommel brought his fist down on the table with a thud. “d**n it, why can’t I figure this out?” he raged. “I took most of North Africa in a matter of weeks, and now I can’t even plot a simple ambush.”
Feeling suddenly drained, his shoulders slumped, and he banged the pencil he had been using down on the table. In the silence that followed, Erwin realized that Speidel was still standing quietly by his chair.
“Sorry,” he said softly, feeling embarrassed by his own outburst. “I didn’t mean to take that all out on you.”
“You need sleep too, Erwin,” his chief of staff said firmly, his use of the Desert Fox’s first name not lost on its owner. He didn’t mind it—Hans was a friend as well as an officer, and a very dear one at that—but he half-wished the general hadn’t used it: that, more than anything else, forced him to give in. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”
“All right,” Rommel relented, looking up from the map to his subordinate at last. Hans offered him his hand, which he took gratefully and pulled himself to his feet, pushing in the chair behind him, rolling up the map, and stuffing it in the pocket of his long overcoat, which he took from the back of his chair and slung over his shoulder as the German officers started down the hall and up the stairs to their respective quarters.
“Maybe tomorrow we can go to that road and consider our options more carefully,” Hans suggested.
Feeling a bit better, Erwin nodded enthusiastically. “Now you’re thinking like a field officer, Hans,” he chuckled, patting the general’s shoulder. “Good work.”
Speidel grinned. “Don’t I get a medal?” They had now reached the field marshal’s door and stopped outside it with Erwin leaning comfortably on the pleasantly cool wood.
“We’ll see,” the Desert Fox replied, returning the smile tiredly. “I’ll see you in the morning, Hans. Thank you.”
“Good night, sir. Sleep well.”
Erwin watched him go, idly wondering if he had known the answer to the puzzle the field marshal had presented to him all along and hadn’t answered just to get to sleep, then turned the doorknob and stepped inside his dark room. The lack of artificial light felt good against his tired eyes, and he suddenly realized he was glad that Hans had made him go up to bed—he was just as exhausted as his chief of staff, but he hadn’t known it himself to show it.
When his eyes adjusted to the unlit room, Rommel was surprised to see his batman, Günter Hoffman, sitting on the chair by his desk. Strange…Günter had cleaned the room only yesterday, and why didn’t he have a light on…?
The desk lamp clicked on, and the room was flooded with dim light. The field marshal blinked once to clear his vision—and stifled a gasp at the identity of the person in the chair.
It wasn’t his batman, that was for sure. The man was tall and wearing all-black clothing, and had even gone so far as to daub his face with dark mud in order to remain concealed. A black cap was pulled low over his ears, but a few strands of hair poking from beneath its brim revealed that his hair was either naturally very dark or it had been dyed as well. A plain, modestly painted pistol pointed unwaveringly at his chest made the image even more ominous. Paratrooper…a Special Air Service commando, Rommel knew instantly. What he was here for remained to be seen, but it was fairly obvious what he had in mind.
“Not a word, please, field marshal,” the man said calmly and quietly, his German flawless. “Sit down.” The pistol gestured a path away from the door
Deciding being cooperative might be a very good idea, Erwin crossed the room and sat on the edge of his neatly made bed.
“Who were you just speaking to?” the paratrooper asked lowly.
“No one.” Better not risk Hans’ life too if he could help it.
A small smile appeared on the commando’s face. “Let’s not play games, Herr Feldmarschall. I can repeat your conversation word for word if I have to, but I’d rather you be honest with me.”
Acknowledging his loss mentally without showing it on his face, Erwin replied, “General Hans Speidel, my—”
“Your chief of staff, yes, I know. Let’s assume I know everything about you to save you from explaining, shall we?”
The first faint stirrings of anger touched the Desert Fox’s mind. “I’m afraid you don’t, Herr…”
“My name is unimportant. And yes, I think you’ll find I do: would you like me to tell you where your son Manfred is now? Describe your wife’s life before she met you, perhaps?”
As politely as possibly, but with murderous intent, Erwin stated, “You will keep my family out of this, please. Why don’t I just assume you’ve read my file, and you can tell me why you’re here?”
“Why do you think, Herr Feldmarschall?”
Rommel chose not to reply. He had several theories of his own, none of them pleasant.
After a long moment of silence, the commando shrugged and holstered his pistol. Noting the German’s glance at it, he shook his head and snapped his fingers, upon which four more men wearing outfits identical to who must be their leader’s entered the room from the doorway that connected the field marshal’s quarters to his batman’s.
“You can try, Herr Feldmarschall, but I don’t advise it,” the first commando said coldly. “There are more of us than there are of you, even with your batman, and we’re all trained for this.”
Wondering if “this” meant a kidnapping or an assassination, the field marshal asked, “Is Günter all right?”
“Fine, although he’s refused to tell us anything. Commendable, really.” He paused and said something in English to one of his men, who disappeared into the other room again and returned with Rommel’s batman in tow. At the lead commando’s prompting, Günter sat beside the field marshal, asking quietly, “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, Günter,” Erwin replied in an undertone. The room was quiet enough for them to still be heard by the British, but it felt better to speak softly anyway. “What about you?” he added, not trusting the Englishman’s word despite the fact that his batman appeared physically unharmed.
“Well enough considering the situation, sir.”
Satisfied, Rommel locked gazes with the British paratrooper once more, his expression unreadable. The two studied each other for a few moments before an unexpected knock echoed through the room.
“Herr Feldmarschall?” Although the voice was muffled from behind the door, it was unmistakably Hans’. Erwin swore under his breath, glancing at the head commando as he called back, “What is it, Hans?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir…there’s a letter here from your wife that got mixed in with my mail. Could I come in?”
“Tell him to go away,” the first commando mouthed, on his feet now and his gun drawn once more.
Erwin hesitated, realizing the variety of possibilities that were suddenly presenting themselves. If he told Speidel to leave, his chief of staff would do so without question, which would probably keep him safe at least, but if he was to stall long enough in silence the general could realize that something was wrong and might come in of his own accord. But what could that do…? Get Hans shot along with him, if that was what they were for? But they couldn’t shoot him, at least not now, because the crack of the pistol would be heard by the officers with quarters on both sides of him in addition to the guards on either sides of the hall, and if they tried to go back out the window now they would run right into the sentry they had probably missed by timing.
Several seconds had elapsed already as he had been thinking, and the commando was looking at him expectantly, prompting him with an impatient nod and a jerk of his gun like he was a reluctant schoolboy. It was that small gesture that irritated the field marshal enough to close his mouth and stare defiantly back at the British soldier, who blinked uncomprehendingly at him for a moment before glaring and leveling the gun directly at his face. But he couldn’t shoot him with everyone around, not unless he wanted to get away…he did want to get away, didn’t he?
“Sir?” Hans’ voice was uncertain now. “Sir, are you in there?”
“Do it!” hissed the leader of the paratroopers. “Now! Tell him to go!”
But it was too late—there was a scraping noise as the German general turned the knob, and then his head appeared around the door. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes widened with astonishment, and his mouth fell open.
Sorry, Hans, Rommel thought regretfully, stiffening as the closest commando leapt on his shocked chief of staff and grabbed him in a headlock, effectively covering his mouth as he did so. The field marshal jumped to his feet, eyes blazing, and the young commando, meeting his gaze guiltily, released Hans and pushed him roughly towards Erwin and his batman, leaning over to close the door quietly instead.
“Christ, Feldmarschall, what’s going on?” Speidel gasped, adjusting his spectacles, which had been knocked askew by the soldier’s rough treatment. His gaze incredulously took in the five commandos standing like quiet shadows in the room lit by the single desk lamp. “Who are these men? Why…” He fell silent abruptly, staring at the tall commando with confusion at first, then dawning understanding and, from beneath that, a spark of anger.
“You’re never, ever going to get away with this,” Hans said heatedly, his eyes narrowing. “If you try to take him, I’ll have every guard in the place roused and on your heels so fast it’ll make your head spin. I’ll—”
“Then I’ll kill him,” the British officer said calmly, his quiet tone making the statement even more ominous. “My orders were nonspecific. Dead or taken. I will do either without hesitating, General Speidel.”
Momentarily taken aback by both the ultimatum and the unexpected use of his name, Hans nevertheless rose to the occasion, drawing himself up so, with the help of his peaked officer’s cap, he nearly matched the commando’s height. “You’ll never—”
“Hans.” The warning note in the field marshal’s voice shut Speidel’s mouth faster than the commando’s icy glare.
For a long minute, silence reigned as the opposing factors, whose members were all standing now, eyed each other. It was the lead commando who finally spoke.
“I suggest we sit down and discuss this like gentlemen,” he said curtly, sitting back down himself. Slowly, the three Germans did the same. “This is what’s going to happen—Feldmarschall Rommel, I have decided that killing you may not be the best course of action in this situation.”
Hans was unable to contain himself and gave a derisive snort. A glare from his superior officer prompted his further silence, and the British officer continued as if nothing had happened.
“Therefore, you will be coming with us. I will not tolerate arguments or complaints—you will come quietly and cooperatively, or else you will be shot. Agreed?”
“It seems I have no choice,” Erwin replied frostily.
“That’s correct,” the commando said with a small smile. “Herr General, Herr Hoffman, neither of you will not raise the alarm until tomorrow morning and will go about your business as if this little encounter never occurred tonight. If I discover that any soldiers coming after our squad tonight, you can consider the Desert Fox a dead fox. Am I understood?”
“I’m going with the field marshal,” Günter said suddenly. “He’ll need a batman still, as a prisoner or otherwise: he’s an officer, and a field marshal at that.”
The British officer looked as surprised as Erwin felt, but after glancing around at his men he nodded. “Very well: I understand what you mean. You may come as long as you realize that the same terms apply to you. All right?”
The quiet batman nodded and disappeared into the next room.
“Then I’m coming too!” Hans snapped. “Being a prisoner’s better than sitting around wondering—”
“Like hell you are,” snarled the Desert Fox suddenly, standing and looking down incredulously at his chief of staff. “My God, Hans, you’re not going to be rotting in some jail for the rest of the war on my account. You’re needed here, and you’re going to be staying here.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, General Speidel!”
“No, sir,” whispered Hans, grinding his teeth in helpless rage. He didn’t look up at Rommel.
“Captain, we’d best be going,” one of the commandos suggested, politely speaking in German for the benefit of the non-English speakers in the room, which consisted of Erwin and his batman only. At a nod from the commanding officer, Günter went wordlessly into the other room and reappeared a moment later with the field marshal’s desert overcoat and scarf. Judging by the tense look on the British man’s face before him, there would be no time for packing luggage, Erwin figured. Although the night was pleasantly cool, he didn’t remove his other coat before putting them on, preferring to bring whatever he could in the absence of a suitcase.
Three more commandos followed his batman from the next room, and by the look on the British captain’s face his time as a free man had expired. The field marshal hesitated, then turned his back on the waiting group and spoke quietly to Hans, switching back to the Swabian dialect so he wouldn't be understood by the commandos.
“Don’t forget the artillery.”
The general lifted his eyes, which Erwin was surprised and touched to see were swimming with tears. “I won’t, sir,” he replied hoarsely. “Mein Gott, I should be coming with you.”
“No.” Rommel’s voice was firm. “You’ll stay here, and you’ll serve my replacement just as well as you did me. Right now is when I need you, Hans—this is when Germany needs you. I can only hope you succeed.” Both men exchanged a serious glance, sharing the double meaning—Speidel, as he had recently revealed to his commanding officer in hopes of inducting him as well, was part of a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler on 20 July. “Now. There’s nothing that can be done for me, so you carry on where I left off.”
A thought suddenly struck him, and he grasped Hans’ arm tightly. “And Lucie—please, Hans, promise me you’ll go see Lucie. Tell her that I love her and Manfred…” Erwin broke off as a lump formed in his throat at the thought of his wife and son. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d seen them last at Lucie’s birthday on the day of the invasion, but this would change everything. Would he ever see them again? “…tell them that I love them more than anything, and that I’ll be all right. I promise them both. Promise me, Hans, that you’ll tell her.”
“Of course I will. Of course.”
“Thank you.” He hadn’t written to Lucie today, hadn’t had the time. Now, more than anything, he wished he had, but there was nothing to be done about that.
“Herr Feldmarschall!” The British captain was getting impatient.
“I’m coming,” he replied irritably without turning, his eyes never leaving his chief of staff’s face. “Take care of yourself, Hans,” he said quietly, taking his hand briefly. “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too, Erwin,” Hans choked out, tears tracking down his face. “I’m so sorry…”
Sadly, the field marshal drew away, pulling his hat low as he gave the general a last nod and turned away. In the middle of the group of commandos, he and Günter climbed down the fire escape from his window silently and dropped into the bushes below.
24 June 1944
2353 Hours GMT
L’Hotel de La Roche Guyon
La Roche Guyon, France
Erwin Rommel rubbed his eyes as he looked out over the map of the French coast once more, blinking to clear his vision, which was beginning to blur with tiredness. Across from him at the small table where they had finished dinner nearly an hour ago, his chief of staff Hans Speidel seemed to be nodding off sitting up, his chin dropping lower and lower to his chest before he jerked himself awake once more. Like Erwin himself, Hans had been running around all day, and the combined exhaustion and stress being put on the both of them because of the increasing threat of invasion was hitting them both hard. They would both, he knew, sleep very well tonight—if they ever managed to get to bed. There were still several divisions that needed placing on a crucial road that could slow the Allied advance long enough for a group of SS panzers that could knock a section of the British army out, and that was just a start.
“What do you think of this, Hans?” Erwin asked abruptly, not looking up from the map as he went over the plan he had just created again. He spoke in the Swabian dialect he and his chief of staff, who was also a native of the region, used when speaking privately, but tonight his tones were tinged with a hint of the irritated harshness of the common High German.
Speidel snapped upright once again, blinking owlishly from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles as he stifled as yawn. “Er…what di’you say, sir?” he mumbled sleepily, taking off his glasses and polishing them absently on his jacket.
“We put those three infantry divisions here, up on this hill—” the field marshal placed his finger at a certain spot on the map, waiting for his near-sighted chief of staff to replace his spectacles before continuing “—and bring the SS group up like this.” His hand made a sweeping gesture across the map in a different manner than they had discussed before, bringing the panzers to a halt on the British’s right flank.
Hans stared at the map for several seconds before nodding. “That would work.”
“And then…?” Erwin pressed, wanting to see if his chief of staff had the same idea.
“Um…” The stocky general scooted his chair closer and laid his chin on his folded arms, his eyes flicking back and forth over the map. After a long moment, he sat back, looking helplessly up at the Desert Fox. “I’m really sorry, sir, but I have absolutely no idea. Go ahead.”
Erwin patiently counted to ten. “The artillery, Hans, the artillery. Remember now? One of those infantry divisions has an artillery battery. If they move to the left flank when the panzers attack, the British only have one way to go, maximizing their losses.”
“Oh. Right.” Hans was looking miserable. “I get it now.”
His commanding officer sighed. “Go to bed, Hans,” he ordered. “You’re falling asleep on your feet.”
Speidel breathed a sigh of relief and stood up stiffly, suppressing another yawn. “Thank you, sir,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry—I just can’t concentrate anymore.”
“I know, I know, neither can I,” Erwin snapped, his gaze still locked on the map spread out in front of him. “Neither can anyone. Our whole bloody army is exhausted, and now the Allies are knocking on our door. We just can’t do it, Hans. We can’t go on like this. We need reinforcements—if the Führer would just see that this is impossible, we could close this senseless front and focus on Russia like we should be doing.” Suddenly angry, Rommel brought his fist down on the table with a thud. “d**n it, why can’t I figure this out?” he raged. “I took most of North Africa in a matter of weeks, and now I can’t even plot a simple ambush.”
Feeling suddenly drained, his shoulders slumped, and he banged the pencil he had been using down on the table. In the silence that followed, Erwin realized that Speidel was still standing quietly by his chair.
“Sorry,” he said softly, feeling embarrassed by his own outburst. “I didn’t mean to take that all out on you.”
“You need sleep too, Erwin,” his chief of staff said firmly, his use of the Desert Fox’s first name not lost on its owner. He didn’t mind it—Hans was a friend as well as an officer, and a very dear one at that—but he half-wished the general hadn’t used it: that, more than anything else, forced him to give in. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”
“All right,” Rommel relented, looking up from the map to his subordinate at last. Hans offered him his hand, which he took gratefully and pulled himself to his feet, pushing in the chair behind him, rolling up the map, and stuffing it in the pocket of his long overcoat, which he took from the back of his chair and slung over his shoulder as the German officers started down the hall and up the stairs to their respective quarters.
“Maybe tomorrow we can go to that road and consider our options more carefully,” Hans suggested.
Feeling a bit better, Erwin nodded enthusiastically. “Now you’re thinking like a field officer, Hans,” he chuckled, patting the general’s shoulder. “Good work.”
Speidel grinned. “Don’t I get a medal?” They had now reached the field marshal’s door and stopped outside it with Erwin leaning comfortably on the pleasantly cool wood.
“We’ll see,” the Desert Fox replied, returning the smile tiredly. “I’ll see you in the morning, Hans. Thank you.”
“Good night, sir. Sleep well.”
Erwin watched him go, idly wondering if he had known the answer to the puzzle the field marshal had presented to him all along and hadn’t answered just to get to sleep, then turned the doorknob and stepped inside his dark room. The lack of artificial light felt good against his tired eyes, and he suddenly realized he was glad that Hans had made him go up to bed—he was just as exhausted as his chief of staff, but he hadn’t known it himself to show it.
When his eyes adjusted to the unlit room, Rommel was surprised to see his batman, Günter Hoffman, sitting on the chair by his desk. Strange…Günter had cleaned the room only yesterday, and why didn’t he have a light on…?
The desk lamp clicked on, and the room was flooded with dim light. The field marshal blinked once to clear his vision—and stifled a gasp at the identity of the person in the chair.
It wasn’t his batman, that was for sure. The man was tall and wearing all-black clothing, and had even gone so far as to daub his face with dark mud in order to remain concealed. A black cap was pulled low over his ears, but a few strands of hair poking from beneath its brim revealed that his hair was either naturally very dark or it had been dyed as well. A plain, modestly painted pistol pointed unwaveringly at his chest made the image even more ominous. Paratrooper…a Special Air Service commando, Rommel knew instantly. What he was here for remained to be seen, but it was fairly obvious what he had in mind.
“Not a word, please, field marshal,” the man said calmly and quietly, his German flawless. “Sit down.” The pistol gestured a path away from the door
Deciding being cooperative might be a very good idea, Erwin crossed the room and sat on the edge of his neatly made bed.
“Who were you just speaking to?” the paratrooper asked lowly.
“No one.” Better not risk Hans’ life too if he could help it.
A small smile appeared on the commando’s face. “Let’s not play games, Herr Feldmarschall. I can repeat your conversation word for word if I have to, but I’d rather you be honest with me.”
Acknowledging his loss mentally without showing it on his face, Erwin replied, “General Hans Speidel, my—”
“Your chief of staff, yes, I know. Let’s assume I know everything about you to save you from explaining, shall we?”
The first faint stirrings of anger touched the Desert Fox’s mind. “I’m afraid you don’t, Herr…”
“My name is unimportant. And yes, I think you’ll find I do: would you like me to tell you where your son Manfred is now? Describe your wife’s life before she met you, perhaps?”
As politely as possibly, but with murderous intent, Erwin stated, “You will keep my family out of this, please. Why don’t I just assume you’ve read my file, and you can tell me why you’re here?”
“Why do you think, Herr Feldmarschall?”
Rommel chose not to reply. He had several theories of his own, none of them pleasant.
After a long moment of silence, the commando shrugged and holstered his pistol. Noting the German’s glance at it, he shook his head and snapped his fingers, upon which four more men wearing outfits identical to who must be their leader’s entered the room from the doorway that connected the field marshal’s quarters to his batman’s.
“You can try, Herr Feldmarschall, but I don’t advise it,” the first commando said coldly. “There are more of us than there are of you, even with your batman, and we’re all trained for this.”
Wondering if “this” meant a kidnapping or an assassination, the field marshal asked, “Is Günter all right?”
“Fine, although he’s refused to tell us anything. Commendable, really.” He paused and said something in English to one of his men, who disappeared into the other room again and returned with Rommel’s batman in tow. At the lead commando’s prompting, Günter sat beside the field marshal, asking quietly, “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, Günter,” Erwin replied in an undertone. The room was quiet enough for them to still be heard by the British, but it felt better to speak softly anyway. “What about you?” he added, not trusting the Englishman’s word despite the fact that his batman appeared physically unharmed.
“Well enough considering the situation, sir.”
Satisfied, Rommel locked gazes with the British paratrooper once more, his expression unreadable. The two studied each other for a few moments before an unexpected knock echoed through the room.
“Herr Feldmarschall?” Although the voice was muffled from behind the door, it was unmistakably Hans’. Erwin swore under his breath, glancing at the head commando as he called back, “What is it, Hans?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir…there’s a letter here from your wife that got mixed in with my mail. Could I come in?”
“Tell him to go away,” the first commando mouthed, on his feet now and his gun drawn once more.
Erwin hesitated, realizing the variety of possibilities that were suddenly presenting themselves. If he told Speidel to leave, his chief of staff would do so without question, which would probably keep him safe at least, but if he was to stall long enough in silence the general could realize that something was wrong and might come in of his own accord. But what could that do…? Get Hans shot along with him, if that was what they were for? But they couldn’t shoot him, at least not now, because the crack of the pistol would be heard by the officers with quarters on both sides of him in addition to the guards on either sides of the hall, and if they tried to go back out the window now they would run right into the sentry they had probably missed by timing.
Several seconds had elapsed already as he had been thinking, and the commando was looking at him expectantly, prompting him with an impatient nod and a jerk of his gun like he was a reluctant schoolboy. It was that small gesture that irritated the field marshal enough to close his mouth and stare defiantly back at the British soldier, who blinked uncomprehendingly at him for a moment before glaring and leveling the gun directly at his face. But he couldn’t shoot him with everyone around, not unless he wanted to get away…he did want to get away, didn’t he?
“Sir?” Hans’ voice was uncertain now. “Sir, are you in there?”
“Do it!” hissed the leader of the paratroopers. “Now! Tell him to go!”
But it was too late—there was a scraping noise as the German general turned the knob, and then his head appeared around the door. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes widened with astonishment, and his mouth fell open.
Sorry, Hans, Rommel thought regretfully, stiffening as the closest commando leapt on his shocked chief of staff and grabbed him in a headlock, effectively covering his mouth as he did so. The field marshal jumped to his feet, eyes blazing, and the young commando, meeting his gaze guiltily, released Hans and pushed him roughly towards Erwin and his batman, leaning over to close the door quietly instead.
“Christ, Feldmarschall, what’s going on?” Speidel gasped, adjusting his spectacles, which had been knocked askew by the soldier’s rough treatment. His gaze incredulously took in the five commandos standing like quiet shadows in the room lit by the single desk lamp. “Who are these men? Why…” He fell silent abruptly, staring at the tall commando with confusion at first, then dawning understanding and, from beneath that, a spark of anger.
“You’re never, ever going to get away with this,” Hans said heatedly, his eyes narrowing. “If you try to take him, I’ll have every guard in the place roused and on your heels so fast it’ll make your head spin. I’ll—”
“Then I’ll kill him,” the British officer said calmly, his quiet tone making the statement even more ominous. “My orders were nonspecific. Dead or taken. I will do either without hesitating, General Speidel.”
Momentarily taken aback by both the ultimatum and the unexpected use of his name, Hans nevertheless rose to the occasion, drawing himself up so, with the help of his peaked officer’s cap, he nearly matched the commando’s height. “You’ll never—”
“Hans.” The warning note in the field marshal’s voice shut Speidel’s mouth faster than the commando’s icy glare.
For a long minute, silence reigned as the opposing factors, whose members were all standing now, eyed each other. It was the lead commando who finally spoke.
“I suggest we sit down and discuss this like gentlemen,” he said curtly, sitting back down himself. Slowly, the three Germans did the same. “This is what’s going to happen—Feldmarschall Rommel, I have decided that killing you may not be the best course of action in this situation.”
Hans was unable to contain himself and gave a derisive snort. A glare from his superior officer prompted his further silence, and the British officer continued as if nothing had happened.
“Therefore, you will be coming with us. I will not tolerate arguments or complaints—you will come quietly and cooperatively, or else you will be shot. Agreed?”
“It seems I have no choice,” Erwin replied frostily.
“That’s correct,” the commando said with a small smile. “Herr General, Herr Hoffman, neither of you will not raise the alarm until tomorrow morning and will go about your business as if this little encounter never occurred tonight. If I discover that any soldiers coming after our squad tonight, you can consider the Desert Fox a dead fox. Am I understood?”
“I’m going with the field marshal,” Günter said suddenly. “He’ll need a batman still, as a prisoner or otherwise: he’s an officer, and a field marshal at that.”
The British officer looked as surprised as Erwin felt, but after glancing around at his men he nodded. “Very well: I understand what you mean. You may come as long as you realize that the same terms apply to you. All right?”
The quiet batman nodded and disappeared into the next room.
“Then I’m coming too!” Hans snapped. “Being a prisoner’s better than sitting around wondering—”
“Like hell you are,” snarled the Desert Fox suddenly, standing and looking down incredulously at his chief of staff. “My God, Hans, you’re not going to be rotting in some jail for the rest of the war on my account. You’re needed here, and you’re going to be staying here.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, General Speidel!”
“No, sir,” whispered Hans, grinding his teeth in helpless rage. He didn’t look up at Rommel.
“Captain, we’d best be going,” one of the commandos suggested, politely speaking in German for the benefit of the non-English speakers in the room, which consisted of Erwin and his batman only. At a nod from the commanding officer, Günter went wordlessly into the other room and reappeared a moment later with the field marshal’s desert overcoat and scarf. Judging by the tense look on the British man’s face before him, there would be no time for packing luggage, Erwin figured. Although the night was pleasantly cool, he didn’t remove his other coat before putting them on, preferring to bring whatever he could in the absence of a suitcase.
Three more commandos followed his batman from the next room, and by the look on the British captain’s face his time as a free man had expired. The field marshal hesitated, then turned his back on the waiting group and spoke quietly to Hans, switching back to the Swabian dialect so he wouldn't be understood by the commandos.
“Don’t forget the artillery.”
The general lifted his eyes, which Erwin was surprised and touched to see were swimming with tears. “I won’t, sir,” he replied hoarsely. “Mein Gott, I should be coming with you.”
“No.” Rommel’s voice was firm. “You’ll stay here, and you’ll serve my replacement just as well as you did me. Right now is when I need you, Hans—this is when Germany needs you. I can only hope you succeed.” Both men exchanged a serious glance, sharing the double meaning—Speidel, as he had recently revealed to his commanding officer in hopes of inducting him as well, was part of a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler on 20 July. “Now. There’s nothing that can be done for me, so you carry on where I left off.”
A thought suddenly struck him, and he grasped Hans’ arm tightly. “And Lucie—please, Hans, promise me you’ll go see Lucie. Tell her that I love her and Manfred…” Erwin broke off as a lump formed in his throat at the thought of his wife and son. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d seen them last at Lucie’s birthday on the day of the invasion, but this would change everything. Would he ever see them again? “…tell them that I love them more than anything, and that I’ll be all right. I promise them both. Promise me, Hans, that you’ll tell her.”
“Of course I will. Of course.”
“Thank you.” He hadn’t written to Lucie today, hadn’t had the time. Now, more than anything, he wished he had, but there was nothing to be done about that.
“Herr Feldmarschall!” The British captain was getting impatient.
“I’m coming,” he replied irritably without turning, his eyes never leaving his chief of staff’s face. “Take care of yourself, Hans,” he said quietly, taking his hand briefly. “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too, Erwin,” Hans choked out, tears tracking down his face. “I’m so sorry…”
Sadly, the field marshal drew away, pulling his hat low as he gave the general a last nod and turned away. In the middle of the group of commandos, he and Günter climbed down the fire escape from his window silently and dropped into the bushes below.